


Claimed

by ImpOfPerversity



Series: Devastation-verse [17]
Category: Baroque Cycle - Neal Stephenson, Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-09-16
Updated: 2004-09-16
Packaged: 2018-10-21 07:01:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10680147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpOfPerversity/pseuds/ImpOfPerversity





	Claimed

Jack Shaftoe woke gradually, noting first that his mouth was dry and tacky with the aftermath of too much rum; then, that there was a peculiar and not unpleasurable ache in his arse, and a strange half-numb shivery tingling around the remains of his privities, and a stickiness that bespoke a climactic event, or perhaps (given the extent of that viscosity) several of them; and, as he came more nearly awake (eyes not yet open, but cerebration, rather than mere sensation, occurring in his alcohol-fogged brain) he recognised the weight that was pressing him down as not merely the heft of the blankets that were keeping him -- or, actually, them -- snug against the morning chill of the sea air, but also the proprietorial arm slung over him by the bed's other occupant: nay, it was no bed but a bunk, on board a ship, and the other occupant of the bed was Captain of this ship, she being the Notorious and Dread _Black Pearl_ , and he the equally Notorious Captain Jack Sparrow; and it was much to Sparrow's credit (though he didn't know it, and would probably, considering the self-regard of the man, be incapable of feigning surprise if told) that Jack Shaftoe, far from feeling offended or confined by that ownerly embrace, found himself turning towards it, eager for more closeness, and warmth; more, indeed, of what he dimly now recalled as the reason underlying all the glueyness, the tender ache of stretched muscle, and the way that his dry lips, discovered by his own tongue, were swollen and tasted of somebody else; tasted, of course, of Jack Sparrow, and there were certainly worse people to wake up next to; and Jack Shaftoe, almost entirely awake now (though still squeezing his eyes closed against the yellow morning light -- the _Black Pearl_ must have changed her course, heading more westerly, and that meant that she had surely passed through the pirate-infested Straits -- that filled the cabin like molten gold, and possibly just as painfully as molten metal might) could not think of anyone, at this moment, to whom he'd rather be glued; for Sparrow, murmuring in his sleep and moving his hand lower, under the covers, over Jack's deeply appreciative body, held within himself the gift of extreme carnal pleasure, a pleasure that Jack'd thought ne'er to give himself up to after the Incident that'd made him Half-Cocked: Jack Sparrow seemed intent upon giving it to him, sharing it with him, taking it from him; 'but', Jack reasoned, almost conscious now, 'a fair exchange is no robbery, though both of us are thieves'; and he imagined himself and Jack Sparrow surrounded by heaped gold that gleamed as brightly as the sunlight presently pouring over them both, but heedless of it and having eyes only for one another; and this delightful picture, drawn with utmost clarity and attention to detail -- scars, tattoos, the beads in Sparrow's hair and the impressive heft of his cock against Jack's belly -- made Jack Shaftoe chuckle to himself, so that Sparrow stirred, and writhed sleepily against Jack, and made a querulous noise; Jack was perturbed to find that the mere sound of Sparrow's voice (or perhaps it was the morning cockstand, hot as a branding-iron, and leaving a mark just as indelible but sweetly invisible, against the curve of his arse) was enough to broaden his own smile, but then again 'twas not so very surprising, for last night Jack Sparrow had been especially attentive, inventive, and gleefully creative from the moment when he'd come quietly into his cabin to find Jack already lounging on his -- their -- bunk, clad only in his soft, dirty linen shirt (and only in _that_ to keep off the draughts that permeated every space in this little wooden world), stretched out with one knee up, hand on what was left of his cock, eyes shut as he tried to recapture the exact way that Jack Sparrow had so cleverly and effectively touched him earlier that day; and Sparrow, surely, had stood there watching for a little while before Jack, somehow sensing the pirate's presence (his heartbeat? the smell of his skin? the sough of his breath?), had opened his eyes; he'd blinked at the sight of Jack Sparrow standing motionless, just _looking_ , eyes opened exaggeratedly wide so as not to miss anything; blinked, and smiled slow and sweet (enjoying the smile that Sparrow returned) and said, "I was just thinking of you," to which Sparrow -- exasperatingly fey, insufferably assured, amusingly touchy Sparrow, who seemed fit to be an endless source of entertainment for Jack Shaftoe -- had smirked like an especially vain (and priapic) satyr, and said, simply and smugly, "I know;" and had then, stripping swiftly down and joining Jack on the bunk, demonstrated exactly what it was that he'd done with his hands (and his lips, his tongue, his teeth, and then his fingers, one-two-three, and then oh then his cock) to make Jack sigh, and swear, and sweat; had had Jack Shaftoe moaning and murmuring plaints ("Oh, Jack, don't tease, don't cease, just touch me oh Jack there") and patienceless pleas ("I want it, you know I want it, I reckon you might even want it too, mate, sooooo -- oh god, oh christ -- just let me have it, _please_ let me ..." with Sparrow kissing him fiercely and laughing breathlessly at, with, him, and saying, "of course I want it, Jack, how could I not, and I wish I could make you feel the way I feel when I'm buried here, _here_ , Jack, feel that, 'swhere I'll be in a moment, right here before you, behind, between, above, below; but I knew it, knew you were thinking of me, for who else's ever made you feel like this, sigh and swoon, and next minute lay your hands on me and have me just how you want me most, Jack, you're my match, my equal, _mine_ \-- " which latter assertion made Jack Shaftoe shiver and twitch, for not only was Sparrow claiming him with his body (and the gradualness of Sparrow pinning and pressing and penetrating him was enough to make any man quake and beg; futile to deny, aloud or even to himself, that he loved every slow second of it) but he was laying claim to Jack Shaftoe with his mouth, his mind, perhaps even his heart; and Jack, who had never been owned or claimed or even especially _wanted_ before -- at least not in the ravenous, all-consuming way that Sparrow wanted him -- wanted to belong to Jack Sparrow, for he knew with utter certainty, as Sparrow strove and groaned and stroked him with that knowing hand, as Sparrow's sentences fell apart into their component words, and then those words crumbled to syllables and the noises of beasts -- and knew _now_ , waking in Sparrow's embrace -- that Jack Sparrow was his, and his alone, and that, though there was room between the two of them for other passions (the _Pearl_ , the numberless tarts and tavern-maids of Sparrow's future excursions ashore, the twin lures of freedom and riches) there was no longer any craving, in either of them, for anything save this.


End file.
